I haven’t seen the host. I live over there-‘ a facile wave in the direction of his residence, ‘And this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.’ I struggled to hide the jolt in my composure. Surely, he must know who I am! Doesn’t everyone? How could I fail so easily at being the reputable host. Quickly recovering, I offered my hand, ‘I’m Gastby.’ ‘What! Oh, I beg your pardon.’ Carraway suddenly awkward, shy almost, as if he had completely embarrassed himself. Perhaps, he had. I tried tact. ‘I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.’ I smile in a consolatory manner, not wanting him to feel he’d ruined the chance of a connection, of a potential companionship. Is it that he simply views me as the shallow sophisticate I play daily in public? His face hints at his own struggle to reconcile what he’d heard about Gatsby. Surprised, maybe, that I’m so young, so well-reasoned. Everything about Carraway, his demeanor, instantly suggested he had seen much of the world. He had that natural look about him - independent and self assured, quiet and confidential. I sensed we shared something from the past. He must have fought in the war, so must understand the pain that I, too, have endured. He could be jaundiced, cynical, but it’s evident he has a compassionate outlook upon the world. It’s in his eyes. A glint, a fleck of fellow feeling, a spirit only recognisable to someone of equal desperation, someone who buries their fears in surface charm. I wanted to befriend this man, initially for this sole reason. A trustworthy, intelligent man of about thirty. Grudgingly, I suppose that all he can see of me is the luxury, the glory that I occupy, surrounded by the most powerful men and beautiful women in all of New York. In truth, I’m just a man who had a dream of making it in life, a man infatuated with love for the most wonderful young woman, willing to do whatever it takes to catch her affections. Yet, no one knows of the hope I hold in my heart, no one knows of the complications we have endured. Momentarily, a butler came towards Carraway and I to inform me that Chicago was calling on the wire - urgent business. I must relieve myself from their company. Turning to each of them in turn, I bowed slightly; I might as well try now to be a good host. ‘If you want anything just ask for it, old sport,’ I urged him. ‘Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.’ Whilst walking away, I could faintly hear him turn to his companion and inform her of the sheer surprise and excitement he felt upon finding my true identity. ‘Who is he?’ The interrogation began. ‘Do you know?’ He was most eager to know more about me, who I am, what I do, trying to grasp any information about the man I am underneath the charm and glory; he truly wanted to know me. No one has ever desired to truly know me. Well, besides... In reality, he already knows all that he needs to. I’m a man of fabulous wealth, who left behind his horrifyingly destitute childhood to become the man that everybody wants to be. I’m your biggest dream. I know that my reputation precedes me, I know I don’t have many real friends, only acquaintances. Truth is, everybody wants to be your friend when you’re a man of such greatness, but so I’ve learnt - trust is for fools. Reinventing yourself is not an easy thing to do. I have created a facade for myself. I have built an identity from nothing. So, I tell everyone that I am an Oxford man. This is something they do not question. A gentleman of such high standing would definitely have come from a long line of Oxford attendees, for tradition would be valued in my family of such affluence. In all honesty, there is no reason for anyone to doubt me, for I have built the perfect disguise. I just wish that there was someone to tell, someone who could understand that I am not really the perfectly wonderful Mr Gatsby they all require me to be - I wish there was someone to love me for all the secrets under my skin, even though I wouldn’t dare to disclose them. The idea is satisfying though, the idea of not being alone in it all.

All four of us looked up at the same time, our reactions the same.

“What the-“ I couldn’t hide my excitement. This was only supposed to be a socially distanced catch up, considering we hadn’t seen each other in a while, but that rapidly changed when we got lost in the forest.

This had now turned into some kind of adventure. To be honest, we should have been worried that we couldn’t find our way back, but something about the serenity and the peacefulness of this place made me feel at ease.

Recently i’d been feeling lost within myself, distracted within the complications of life and trying to make it through everyday whilst navigating lonely lockdowns and constant confusion. As I stepped outside this morning to join my friends, I felt apprehensive and anxious, afraid that I had lost every single social skill it took me my entire life to acquire.

But here we are, strolling through the forest as if we hadn’t missed a moment. I feel safe in the thicket of trees. It feels like they’re hugging me, telling me that I’ve got this, that I’ll make it out alive.

Now, we had stumbled across an entrance. An entrance to what? It looked out of place but as though the lavishness fit right into the surrounding greenery. It looked royal and prestigious.

I was the first to move closer. I had to know what was inside!

The others moved behind me, no one making a noise.

Suddenly, I flinched. From the corner of my eye I saw some thing move.

“Hello,” I called. “Anybody there?”

No one responded, so I walked further through the tunnel. The passage way began to widen and light flooded in.

“Fuck!” I swore allowed as I tripped over something at my feet. I stood back, wanting to prepare the others for the stone step that lay in the middle of the path.

It wasn’t a stone step.

“Oh my God.”

I felt every element of serenity leave my body. It was as if ice had been injected into my veins.

The others asked me what I had seen. I couldn’t speak.

My English teacher lay dead at my feet.

Debris was piled high, cluttering the streets that earlier in the day people walked to get to work and school. Buildings had collapsed in on themselves, taking furniture and livelihoods with them, riding families of homes and comfort. All that could be found in these piles of rubble was lost hope and tragedy. Many bodies of the people that we once knew and loved would soon be found among the emotions and sanity we had lost in the devastation. I spot a small stuffed toy sitting between fallen bricks and timber. It’s extremely possible that the small owner of that small toy was also laying between such materials, a lifeless body, a lost soul. The worst part of this stings with every passing minute: there’s nothing we could have done to prevent this. Or to prevent it consuming us again?

“Ready or not, here I come...”

A sinister voice called out into the empty air, waiting for a moment of confusion to fall upon the player of the innocent childhood game.

“You forgot to count to ten, dad!”

It’s funny that little children can’t recognise their parents voices from afar. It’s like an accident waiting to happen.

“Oh yeah! Sorry son,” there was no element of happiness or joy in the voice of this man. If there was anyone less suited to be a father, it would be a miracle. This child was in trouble.

You know when you play hide and seek with a little kid and they don’t really understand the concept of the game. Hiding in plain sight, you may say. Well, you should always hide from a kidnapper.

“One...” step closer he moved, his feet not making a single sound. “Two...” muffled sounds coming from the boot of the nearest car. Bet you wondered what he’d done with dad? “Three...” twigs snapped under his foot. “Four...” people leaving the playground, turning their backs on this horrifying act. “Five...” seconds left to run.

“Ready or not, here I come!”

A bang echoed around the green. A man fell to the floor, blood and brains spilling from his head.

“Fuck you for messing with my son.” Said dad.

i sit alone in a lockdown no way to leave my house my family are here each drawn apart by crippling mental health try as we might to make it alright it will never be easy

i sit alone in a lockdown with every other man in his own isolation no reason to leave his house our friends are missing all drawn away by their own anxious states their own crippling fears.

i sit alone in a lockdown with myself for company if i look online i can see the whole world has paused, apart from each other alone, isolated. but in reality we’re closer than ever more afraid, yet more intelligent we have each other through zoom and facebook all like waiting for the night we can find our favourite souls once again.

I don’t like losing. I never have. I’ve always been a sore loser. Playing games as a kid, playing games as an adult, I never want to lose. So when Jason told me I’d lost him to another woman, it was never going to end well.

So here I am, in a dark alley, watching a petit, blonde woman walk towards a car. Her name is Ashley, she’s 28 and she drives a white 2011 Vauxhall Corsa. I didn’t know that information already, the stuff about the car; but she just got into the drivers seat, so i’ll make the assumption.

I do, however, already know that she has a daughter, two cats, two goldfish and she lives with her sister, who is currently going through a divorce. Her sister is called Josie and her daughter is called Melody. And, i know exactly where they live.

It’s time for Jason to learn that I never lose.

I can’t see.

Not because it’s dark. Not because I’m afraid. I just can’t see. You see (excuse the pun), I’m blind.

I don’t recognise my surroundings. How would I, you might ask? Well, I don’t recognise the smell.

Everybody knows that when you lose a certain one of your senses, your others are heightened. I’ve never known what it’s like to see. I was born this way. I don’t know what the sky looks like. Or the ocean. I don’t know what my bedroom looks like. Or my entire house. I don’t know what my friends look like. Or my parents.

I can’t place the smell, not yet, but I could tell that I was in a car. I can tell by the seats. And the fact that there’s a seat belt buckle either side of me. I must be in the middle seat. I don’t know what the car looks like. I’ve never seen a car.

All I know is that I’m with someone familiar.

I don’t understand. How can I be with someone familiar but not recognise the smell and the pattern of their breathing? I think it’s only one person. Female, I’m guessing. Her breath is naturally lighter than a mans and there’s a tinge of Chloé perfume filling the limited air inside the car. I wonder what colour the car is. I wonder what colours look like.

I suddenly feel vulnerable. I don’t feel vulnerable as often as I should. Not for a blind girl anyways. I’m stubborn and independent, but something about this felt off.

“Jenny,” a quiet voice. Nervous. Not what i was expecting.

She knows my name. I know this person.

“There’s something you need t-“

“Who are you?” I intercepted.

“Jenny. I- I’m your biological mother.”

I was not expecting that.

“I’m sorry I gave you up. It was complicated. I was young.” Was she pleading with me? Trying to make me understand?

“You gave me up because I’m blind...” I was only stating the obvious, trying not to sound confused, trying not to sound vulnerable.

“No. I didn’t. I promise. I had no idea, not until after.”

“So why?” I think a tear just ran down my cheek, warm and salty.

“I was raped.”

I was not expecting that.

“He didn’t say that!”

“Yes. Yes, he did.”

“Was I there when this happened because I genuinely have no recollection of him even being there at all?”

“Yes, Malory, you were there. And no. He didn’t not say that his dad knew it was us.”

“It doesn’t matter whether you think he did or not! If I do, surely that’s enough to go on?!”

“Wait. Guys. Isn’t his dad a policeman...?”

Malory was always a little slow, there was something about her that wasn’t completely in the room, you couldn’t rely on her for anything to be honest. Well, except showing up and stating the obvious.

“That’s the problem!” The two others said in unison.

“Look, Emily, I love you but you’re over thinking this. Maybe you’re just remembering it wrong, you were drunk and well, everyone knows you’re kinda into him.”

“Actually, Emily’s more into his dad than him.” Malory chimed in. Emily looked at her with such spite in her eyes that she could have killed her right there and then.

“What do you mean...?” Sarah, the last of the three girls, asked.

“She didn’t tell you?” Malory continued, blissfully unaware of the information that was given to her in confidence. “They slept together.”

“You’re fucking joking.”

Silence fell. Emily didn’t even attempt to defend herself, the damage was done and the secret was out.

“You slept with Ian’s dad? Ian’s policeman father?” Sarah questioned turning to Emily. Suddenly it dawned on her. It all started to make sense. The panic and confusion, frustration and regret became visible on her usually calm and collected face.

“Oh the fucking irony!” She moaned.

Emily just looked at her. Dead in the eye. There was no going back. The deed was done. Both deeds. Well, about seven deeds, some lesser deeds and the one, big, gut-reaching deed.

“It wasn’t an accident.” Sarah said, her breathing becoming much less even than before.

“That’s why you killed Ian’s step-mum... That’s why we helped you cover it up. It wasn’t an accident.”

Emily’s facade hadn’t fallen. She just carried on looking at her best friend.

“You wanted her dead.”

Sometimes, we have to make a decision. This may be a hard decision, but perhaps it’s the easiest one that you’ve ever made; you have to choose to start again.

Beginnings can be petrifying, they can be tough and rough and unkind. A fresh start isn’t always something to look forward to, often they are dreaded.

But that’s the thing about moving on, starting again, retrying - you get to take the lessons that you learnt, you get to take them with you and hold them close.

You see, the thing is: you don’t have to forget. You don’t have to pretend that the past never happened. Just because you’ve started a new chapter, doesn’t mean you didn’t have to read the ones prior. You’ve just progressed.

Whenever you decide to begin again, to move on, to retry, you’re becoming a better, fresher, more resilient, kinder, more loving version of yourself, no matter how terrified and afraid that self may be. You get to be more patient with yourself and maybe even more successful. So, don’t wish away the past: love it, cherish it. Begin again.

My leg was numb. My arm was numb. My heart was pounding. I could feel his warmth and hear his breath. Every single move he made, I flinched, extreme paranoia creeping in, as I tried to watch his hands from out the corner of my eye.

The darkness was deafening. I couldn’t decide if it was a blanket of safety, or the opposite, fully revealing everything, making my anxieties and vulnerabilities known. He was the one that caused me so much heartbreak and pain, yet fixed me up again, each and every time, even if he remained so unaware.

Thoughts roamed freely in my head, questioning what he was thinking about. Was it possible that he was thinking about how close we were? How our arms, how our legs were touching and the pattern of my own breath, watching me from the corner of his own eye? Was he thinking about how dangerous this was? How dangerous the prospect of him and I even sitting next to each other could turn out to be?

My eyes were front, but my focus was elsewhere. I couldn’t hear over the rising anxiety inside of me, worried to make a wrong move, one that would expose myself and jeopardise everything we had risked just to be here.

My leg was shaking so uncontrollably that he must have been aware of how terrified I was. Probably, he could feel my leg moving against his, even if I couldn’t, even if he’d never admit to seeing my fragility.

All I wanted was to reach for his hand, or for him to reach for mine. All I wanted was to rest my head upon his shoulder and breathe in his smell.

I hoped the darkness would cover us and our illicit acts, because, well, somethings are easier said in the dark. The dark could conceal your mistakes, make them invisible to everyone. People always said stupid things in the dark, you could blame it on the courage that darkness created. I knew that I would live to regret this, but I had to let him know.

“I’m in love with you.” I whispered. Had I even said it loud enough for him to hear? “I know.” He replied. I guess I had.